


Moving On

by Mizmak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley plays the Piano, Declarations Of Love, Kissing, M/M, Moving In Together, Romance, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22439521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizmak/pseuds/Mizmak
Summary: Yet another South Downs cottage story, in which Crowley and Aziraphale figure a few things out about living together, and about being in a closer relationship, with a surprising rendition of Dvorak's Humoresque No. 7 on the piano.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 70





	Moving On

Aziraphale opened the cottage door, strolled inside, and set down a large cardboard box on the floor. Books – one of many boxes he intended to bring here.

A certain former demon, now unemployed and retired from Hell, just as he was retired from Heaven’s service, sauntered in behind him holding a carefully wrapped, rectangular package. It was the only item he’d brought from his London flat – a certain drawing by a certain Renaissance master.

“Over the fireplace?” he asked as he unwrapped it.

Aziraphale frowned. The space above the fireplace had a perfectly lovely landscape of rolling hills and trees with a stream, complete with swans. He liked it. “Perhaps it would go better in the library?”

“The _what?”_

“Well, I thought since we don’t actually _need_ two bedrooms, that the second one could be the library.” He was planning to bring an awful lot of books, after all.

“We don’t need two bedrooms?”

“Of course not. There’s a master, with _en suite_ bath, and a perfectly large bed. How much room do you need? I have a _lot_ of books.”

Crowley stared at the landscape painting over the fireplace. The whole cottage had come furnished – something Aziraphale had expressly looked for during the hunt here in the South Downs for their new home. He intended to move his desk here, and quite a few bookcases, but other than that, he had no furniture he was overly attached to. The main reason, however, had been to prevent Crowley from bringing any of his atrocious décor.

“That painting’s a bit _nice_ , if you ask me.” Crowley said _nice_ as if it were a four-letter word. Which, of course, it _was_. 

Aziraphale chose to ignore the tone. “It fits the style.” There were two overstuffed armchairs, an overstuffed sofa, and a 1920s coffee table in the living area. The wallpaper had a pattern of tiny roses. 

He wasn’t certain about the console piano, though. It stood against the inside wall between the living room and the dining room. He could put a bookcase there instead.

“Go look at the second bedroom, why don’t you, and see if you can find a good place for your picture.”

“Hmpf.” Crowley wandered off down the hallway. 

At the moment, the second bedroom still had a bed and a chest of drawers in it, but as far as Aziraphale was concerned, that would change. He envisioned a room lined on every wall with bookcases, plus his rolltop desk and chair, and a chaise for relaxed reading. _Perfect_.

He went out to the Bentley to retrieve another box of books. It was true that Crowley had not been as involved with the hunt for a cottage, and had mostly shrugged a lot when asked his opinion of the properties they looked over, and in the end, Aziraphale had simply got one that _he_ adored. If Crowley didn’t care for the furnishings, that was hardly _his_ fault.

When he walked into the living room with the second box of books, he saw Crowley standing in front of the piano. 

“That can go, of course,” Aziraphale said as he set his box down.

To his immense surprise, Crowley slid back the keyboard cover and played the long, slender fingers of his right hand over the keys, producing a melody. “Hm. Not _too_ badly out of tune, perhaps.”

Aziraphale gaped at him. “You can _play?”_

“A bit.” He pulled out the bench, sat down, and brought both hands to the keyboard. 

_Dvorak._ His most well-known Humoresque. The notes danced into the air, lilting and capricious at times, bolder yet haunting at others – a beautiful piece, beautifully executed.

Not a long piece – Crowley finished playing and pulled the cover down over the keys. “Nope. Definitely needs a tuning.”

He got up, shoved the bench in, and turned to face Aziraphale, who stood there, mouth partly open, entranced. “Can we keep it?”

Aziraphale stared at him, utterly lost in astonishment.

“Angel? Are you all right?” Crowley took a step towards him.

“ _You play the piano!”_

“Er – uh – yeah?”

Aziraphale sank down onto the sofa, gaping at him. “ _Since when do you play the piano?”_ He had known the fellow for six thousand years, for Heaven’s sake. They were _friends_. They were, in fact, _best friends_. How did he not know this?

Crowley shrugged, hands in his pockets, standing there, swaying gently in that nonchalant manner he had mastered so well. “Um…maybe since the late nineteenth century?”

“Really.” Aziraphale shook his head. “ _How?”_

“Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters!” Honestly. “When did you ever find time to take music lessons?”

Crowley suddenly looked distinctly uncomfortable. He had stopped swaying, standing there rigidly, eyes downcast. “I just _did_. You don’t think I spent all my time going around tempting people, do you? Had to fill up the time somehow, and there was a bloke living in the flat below who was a concert pianist. Got bored one day, went down for a chat. Wound up taking lessons.”

“Yes, but –“ Aziraphale broke off. He had been about to ask why, if Crowley had been bored, he hadn’t simply come to _him_ for a chat. But the words _late nineteenth century_ finally penetrated his confused brain, and told him everything. 

They had argued over the holy water in 1862. And hadn’t spoken for decades afterwards. The worst time in their long history together, as far as he was concerned.

And a time, apparently, when Crowley had sought out other company – human company.

“Of course we can keep the piano,” he said. “You play very well.” He did not say, _You must have had quite a few years of lessons_. _You must have been fond of the fellow_.

They rarely made human friends. People simply didn’t live long enough. A few here and there -- Aziraphale had made some during his days at the men’s club, when he learned to dance. And he knew that Crowley had been quite fond of da Vinci. He had never felt jealous – why would he? Humans flitted in and out of their lives like mayflies, but he would have Crowley’s friendship forever.

He did regret that one fight, though, very deeply. Aziraphale rose and walked over to his friend, giving him a light touch on the arm. “I’m going out for more books. There’s a kettle in the kitchen, and tea things. Would you mind?”

“Why don’t I just make it with a miracle?”

“You _could_ , but it’s more satisfying to do it the old-fashioned way. At least, _I_ think it is.”

Crowley pursed his lips, then blew out a soft sigh. “Very well. If I set anything on fire, though, I won’t be putting it out the old-fashioned way.” He sauntered off to the kitchen.

The decision to leave London, at least for the foreseeable future, had been a relatively easy one to make. After the hectic days of saving the world from an apocalypse, they needed a rest, but it was more than a mere holiday. After six thousand years of performing Heaven and Hell’s bidding, they had been granted an unexpected retirement, and they wanted to spend time together – because for the first time in sixty centuries, they could do so without fear.

Thus the purchase of a cottage on the outskirts of a village that was a two-hour drive from the city for ordinary people, or an hour-and-a-half for a certain fast-driving fellow. Crowley gave up his flat, having never really _lived_ in it so much as slept there, only keeping it up for appearance’s sake. 

But Aziraphale kept the bookshop, albeit with an “out of business” sign, since he loved it dearly and they needed a place in Town for overnight visits. They were not about to give up dining in London, and there were always theatre shows or symphony concerts Aziraphale wanted to see. So they planned to spend the weekdays in the country, and most weekends in London. 

By the time Aziraphale had hauled in the last box of books that fit in the Bentley – there would be more trips back to Town to collect the rest – he smelled a waft of Earl Grey from the kitchen. 

He walked into the small dining room – really more of a nook -- that opened to the kitchen. Crowley was just bringing two mugs out, and he could see a kettle on the hot plate on the kitchen counter, still steaming, and the teapot sitting beside it, with a tea cosy on top. 

_Imagine that._ Crowley was full of surprises today. _First the piano, and now he knows what a tea cosy is for._

“Ah. Perfect timing.” Aziraphale took the mug held out for him, and turned to the little table in the dining nook when he felt a light tug on his arm. “Hm?”

“Sofa.” Crowley headed into the living area and sat down.

Aziraphale joined him there. He doubted if Crowley ever ate at a dining table outside of a restaurant – he didn’t remember even seeing one in his flat. Not that he ever ate much food, but still – there were _standards_ to maintain.

“Tea is one thing,” he said. “Meals are different. Those shall be eaten at the dining table, not in here.”

“Fussy.”

“ _Crumbs_ , my dear fellow. Yes, I suppose you can miracle them away, but that’s not the point. The point is to behave in a civilized fashion.”

“And I’m not civilized?” Crowley stretched out his legs to prop his feet on top of the coffee table, smiling as he did so.

_Provoking_. “Please remove your shoes from that table.”

“All right.” He snapped his fingers and the shoes vanished, but the sock-clad feet remained firmly planted. “Any other house rules I need to know about before I break them?”

Truth to tell, they had not discussed the details of their new living arrangement. Aziraphale sighed. _Remiss_. Neither of them had ever shared habitation with anyone before. Surely _best friends_ ought to be able to handle any little miscommunications or undue expectations?

They’d been observing humans for six millennia – surely they could figure out how close relationships were meant to work. He’d read thousands of books – lots of them novels – which often centered on such relationships. And though Crowley didn’t read books, he went to the theater and the motion pictures. He must have picked up a thing or two there.

Or so Aziraphale hoped.

“Number one,” he said carefully. “Do not annoy the angel who signed the mortgage loan.” They had decided not to buy the place outright with cash, deeming it too likely to raise unnecessary attention from the Revenue office.

“Ah. Well, I _would_ have signed it too, if you hadn’t sent me off to buy champagne to celebrate, as I recall.”

“ _You_ had no collateral other than the Bentley which, as _I_ recall, you refused to even consider putting up, while _I_ put up my bookshop!”

“Fussy _and_ touchy. What’s rule number two?”

Aziraphale sipped his tea, which had been made exactly the way he liked it – quite sweet, and quite milky. “Well, I haven’t got that far yet. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”

“I’m sure you will.” Crowley lay his hand on Aziraphale’s thigh. “In the meantime, can we just relax? It’s been a long day.”

_Ah, that touch…_ Aziraphale rested his hand briefly on top of Crowley’s, then released it as Crowley took his hand off his thigh. Merely a brief connection, a little touch of affection. There had been plenty of such moments of late, but as yet, neither of them had said anything about _love_.

And why not? Surely there couldn’t be a better time, now that they were free to be together. What was he waiting for?

Nothing. 

They were _sharing a cottage_ – how much more assurance did he need that his feelings would be returned? 

He set his mug on the coffee table after miracling up a coaster first. He turned a little sideways to look at Crowley, grateful that his friend was not wearing his sunglasses for once. “I admit that I can be fussy.”

Crowley sipped his tea, nodding. “Yup.”

“I may even be a little sensitive at times, though no more than you are.”

“Me?” Crowley turned towards him, one eyebrow raised. “When have I ever been _sensitive?”_

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Whenever I mention how nice or good or kind you can be?”

“Oh, that.” Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not sensitive. That’s _touchy_.”

“What is the difference, may I ask?” _Damn_. This wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go _at all_ , but somehow Crowley managed to cause sparks to fly between them. 

“No, you may not.” Crowley took one last gulp and set his mug down. “What are you going on about?”

“I am not _going on_ about anything! I am _trying_ to say that I’m not perfect but neither are you and it will take work and compromise to live together without…without—“

“Without throttling each other?”

“Yes! No! I am not going to throttle anyone. Honestly.” He looked away, crossing his arms tightly. “There’s no talking to you sometimes.”

“Fine. Don’t talk.” Crowley started to rise.

Aziraphale quickly uncrossed his arms to pull him back down. “Don’t be like that. I wanted to tell you something.” He paused. “Something important.”

“Right. Fine. Whatever.” Crowley sank against the sofa back.

_Now what?_ Aziraphale struggled to find the right words.

After an awkward silence, Crowley said, “And which century did you plan to tell me this important something?”

_There he went again, being irksome_. This time, though, Aziraphale had sense enough to not respond to the tone. He cleared his throat and replied, “It’s something that I’ve wanted to tell you for a very long time.”

“That I’m exasperating?”

He started to say “no”, then changed his mind. “Yes, you can be.”

“Oh.” Clearly, Crowley hadn’t expected that reply. He narrowed his eyes. “What else?”

“You can be vexing. You try my patience.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And you get under my skin…in a rather compelling and persistent way.”

Crowley’s eyes widened. “I do?”

“Yes. And though I may say that I mind, or act as though I protest, that’s only a mask for what I truly feel.” Aziraphale felt a shivering tremble through his whole body as he reached to take Crowley’s hand in his. “I didn’t mean to be fussy or to make rules. I only wanted everything to be perfect here. We can work out how to make it work _together_ , yes?”

“Um…yes?” Crowley looked at their joined hands, and said softly, with a hint of curiosity, “Angel?”

Without any further hesitation, Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love you.” He smiled. “So _this_ —“ He waved his other hand around at the room. “This will simply _have_ to work.”

Crowley stared at him, looked at their joined hands again, and then brought Aziraphale’s hand to his lips to kiss it. “All right.”

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. He knew he didn’t have to say a word – all he had to do was ask the question with his eyes. Crowley had never been able to refuse him yet.

Crowley smiled. “You are devious, for an angel.”

“Possibly.” He kept his eyebrows raised, and added a beatific smile.

“Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve you.”

“In a good way, I trust?”

“In the best of all possible ways, yes.” Crowley leaned close to touch his lips to Aziraphale’s forehead. “Of course I love you.”

“Ah.” He closed his eyes. “That’s _nice_.”

“I am not –“

“You _are_.” Aziraphale opened his eyes to gaze into those wondrous golden ones. “Trust me, you are.”

Crowley sighed. “ _Don’t_ tell anyone.” Then he leaned in even closer and kissed him on the lips.

_Such_ a light touch…at first. Aziraphale had never kissed anyone ever, yet he did not hold back at all. He loved Crowley’s lips – soft and subtle, then harder and full of fire – he loved Crowley’s mouth, deftly meeting his with strength tempered with tenderness, and with a fullness of devotion. 

He reached a hand around the back of Crowley’s head, stroking his hair as they moved into a longer kiss, one of warmth, of sweetness, a kiss that merged them into one being for the length of one breath. He felt Crowley’s hand in return, clutching the nape of his neck, slender fingers running up into his hair. 

There would be more – much more, in time -- though for now, he felt content. _Whole_. Loved.

Aziraphale broke off first. He touched Crowley’s face. “Don’t tell me that wasn’t nice.”

“Downright enchanting,” Crowley replied. He looked down the hallway. “Did you say we only needed one bedroom, Angel?”

“I did say that.” The trembling shiver ran up his spine again. 

“And in theory, we only need one bed in it.”

“I believe so.”

“Come night time, perhaps we should put that theory to the test?”

Why were there so many hours to go until night time… _well_ , he thought, _good things come to those who wait_. 

They had, after all, waited sixty centuries. They were very well practiced at waiting. “Yes, I believe we should.” He left off his caresses and added lightly, “Isn’t it about time for dinner?”

“I’m not cooking anything from scratch,” Crowley replied as he pushed himself off the sofa in one swift move. 

“Of course not. Making tea probably stretched the limits of your culinary skills as it is.”

Crowley laughed. “As I said, _What did I do to deserve you?”_

“Whatever it was, I’m grateful. Shall we see what that little restaurant in the village is like?” He headed for the front door with a positive bounce in each step.

_They were good. This would work. They were together._

Crowley snapped his vanished shoes back on. They left the cottage, and as they walked down the front path side by side, Aziraphale glanced back and thought, _This is our home_.

The village stood only a quarter-mile away either by the road, or by a wide footpath. The afternoon was easing into early evening, but they had long summer light to guide the way.

Crowley gave the Bentley a fond pat as he strolled right past it. “Let’s walk.”

They headed off along the path, and without needing to ask, they each reached out to take hold of the other’s hand as if it were the most natural act in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> Dvorak's Humoresque, Opus 101, No. 7 - there's a nice version here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IZly_IRJEsA
> 
> Seriously, Crowley's long slender fingers were *made* to play the piano.


End file.
